New SHAZAM in Flashpoint World - Chapter 9
Chapter 9: The Super Alias and a Trip to Gotham
The acrid smell of ozone from his impromptu lightning display eventually faded, replaced by the cleaner, cooler air of higher altitudes as Jack resumed his eastward journey. The encounter with the pigeons, while minor, had served as a potent reminder of the chasm between possessing power and wielding it responsibly. His control was nascent, his experience nonexistent. Every test, every new application of these divine gifts, was a step into the unknown, fraught with the potential for unintended, possibly catastrophic, consequences.
As he flew, the vast expanse of the sky his only companion, his thoughts turned from the application of his powers to their very source. The word. “SHAZAM.” It was the key that unlocked this incredible might, transforming him from a (currently) twelve-year-old boy into this paragon of demigodly prowess. The Wizard had compelled him to say it, the staff itself thrumming with an ancient imperative. But a chilling thought, one that had been lurking at the periphery of his awareness, now pushed its way to the forefront with undeniable clarity.
If saying the word transformed him into this, what happened if he said it while he was this?
He knew the answer, of course. Every iteration of the Shazam mythos, from the Golden Age comics to the modern interpretations, was clear on this point. The magic word was a two-way street. It giveth, and it taketh away. Uttering “SHAZAM” while in his powered form would, undoubtedly, reverse the transformation, stripping him of these incredible abilities and reverting him to… well, to what? His original 34-year-old self, miraculously returned to his own dimension? He wished. No, the horrifyingly logical conclusion was that it would return him to the form he’d been in just before the Wizard forced the staff upon him: the skinny, bewildered, twelve-year-old boy.
A shiver, entirely unrelated to the high-altitude temperature, traced its way down his spine. To be suddenly depowered, to become a vulnerable child in the midst of a crisis, or worse, in the clutches of an enemy like Zod… it was a death sentence. This wasn’t just a piece of comic book trivia anymore; it was a critical, life-or-death vulnerability.
That secret stays buried, he resolved with grim determination. Buried deep. He couldn’t risk anyone knowing. He couldn’t even risk saying it aloud to himself while powered up, lest some super-powered eavesdropper with a grudge against magic picked up on it. This meant he couldn’t actually call himself Shazam, could he? Imagine the disastrous irony: “Fear not, citizens! I am Shazam!” followed by an awkward puff of smoke and a confused pre-teen standing where a hero used to be. No, “Shazam” was the magic, the source, the secret trigger – not his operational codename.
Which led to the next, surprisingly vexing problem: if he wasn’t Shazam, then who, or what, was he? If he was going to confront Bruce Wayne, or, heaven forbid, try to rally other non-existent heroes, he needed a name. “Hey, you, the flying muscle-bound dude in the cape who looks vaguely like he shops at a superhero outlet mall” probably wouldn’t inspire much confidence.
He let his mind drift, brainstorming possibilities as the countryside unspooled beneath him like a green and brown carpet. Captain Thunder? Too derivative of Captain Marvel, the original Shazam. The Human Lightning Bolt? A bit too on-the-nose, and frankly, made him sound like a sports mascot. He considered more grandiose titles: Titan, Paragon, The Empyrean. But they all felt… pretentious. He was still Jack at his core, the cynical, popcorn-loving fanboy. Strutting around calling himself ‘The Empyrean’ would make him feel like an absolute fool. He needed something that acknowledged the power, but perhaps also his own slightly bewildered, down-to-earth (or at least, formerly down-to-earth) nature.
He snorted, a gust of wind whipping the sound away. What about something simple? Something direct? Something… a little bit ridiculous, to match the sheer absurdity of his current predicament?
“Super Jack,” he said aloud, testing the sound of it. His booming new voice gave the name an unexpected weight, but the inherent silliness still shone through. It was like a cheap knock-off brand, the kind of hero name a kid would invent. And yet… it had a certain charm. It was straightforward. It used his actual (first) name, which felt honest, in a weird way. And the “Super” prefix, while generic, was undeniably classic. It was memorable. It didn’t take itself too seriously, and right now, taking himself too seriously felt like a fast track to a complete mental breakdown.
“Yeah,” he decided, a wry grin playing on his lips. “Super Jack. Suitably ridiculous, but memorable.” It would have to do. At least until he came up with something better, or until this whole nightmare ended, whichever came first. He suspected the former was more likely.
With his alias – however temporary or absurd – settled, and the critical importance of never, ever saying his own magic word while powered up seared into his brain, Jack refocused on the journey ahead. Gotham City.
He pushed his speed, the landscape below transforming into a rushing, indistinct blur of greens and browns. He was more proficient with flight now, the initial awkwardness replaced by a growing sense of confidence, of unity with the power that propelled him. He climbed higher, into the colder, thinner air, the curve of the Earth a subtle, breathtaking arc on the horizon. The sheer joy of movement, of this incredible freedom, was still a potent antidote to the dread that gnawed at the edges of his mind.
But as he flew, as the miles dissolved behind him, the nature of his destination began to assert itself. Gotham. The name itself was a synonym for darkness, for urban decay, for a particular brand of flamboyant, psychological horror that few other fictional cities could match. It was the domain of the Batman, a creature of shadow and fear, a grim avenger forged in tragedy.
A complex cocktail of emotions churned within him. Part of it was undeniably dread. This wasn’t a comic book he was reading; he was flying towards a real place, a place that, in this Flashpoint reality, had already broken one Batman. He was about to seek out an older, reclusive Bruce Wayne, a man who had retreated from the world, a man who might be bitter, hostile, or simply indifferent to the fate of a world that had already cost him so much. The Zod threat was global, immediate, and terrifying. Convincing this ghost of a Batman to re-engage, to help a stranger who looked like a god but sounded like a bewildered tourist, felt like an impossible task. What could he possibly say? How could he bridge the gap between his outlandish truth and Wayne’s probable cynicism?
Yet, interwoven with that very real dread was an undeniable thread of… fanboy excitement. This was Gotham City. He was about to meet Bruce Wayne. Even a broken, Flashpoint version of Bruce Wayne was still a living legend, a cornerstone of the DC universe he had spent his life adoring. He found himself recalling iconic Batman moments, classic storylines, different artists’ renderings of the Batcave, the Batsuit, the Batmobile. He wondered what this older Wayne would be like. Would there be any trace of the driven detective beneath the reclusive facade? Would Wayne Manor be a decaying mausoleum or a fortress of solitude? The lifelong fan in him couldn’t suppress a thrill at the prospect of stepping into that iconic setting, of interacting with a character he knew so intimately from the page.
The sky ahead was beginning to change. The bright, clear blue that had accompanied him from Metropolis was gradually giving way to a bruised, overcast canopy. The clouds thickened, hanging lower, casting the world below in a more somber, muted light. It was a subtle shift, but Jack felt it, an almost palpable change in atmosphere, as if he were entering a different domain, one governed by shadow rather than sun. Gotham’s notorious gloom, it seemed, was not merely metaphorical.
He descended slightly, peering through the increasingly dense cloud cover. And then he saw it.
Rising from the murky landscape, a jagged silhouette against the bruised sky, was Gotham City. It wasn’t the fantastical, gothic wonderland of some comic interpretations, nor the sleek, art-deco metropolis of others. From this distance, it looked… grim. A dense sprawl of dark buildings, sharp angles, and shadowed alleyways, clustered around a polluted river that snaked through its heart like a black artery. It had a brooding, unwelcoming presence, even from miles away. It looked exactly like the kind of city that would create, and eventually consume, a Batman.
A fresh wave of anxiety washed over Jack, momentarily eclipsing the fanboy excitement. This was it. No turning back. He was Super Jack, the ridiculously named, accidentally divinely powered fanboy, on his way to petition a broken Bat in a doomed world, with the fate of humanity possibly resting on his very inexperienced, very unsure shoulders.
He took a deep, steadying breath, the cool, damp air of Gotham’s outskirts filling his lungs. The city loomed larger with every passing second, its dark towers like grasping fingers, its shadowed streets promising unknown dangers and, perhaps, a single, flickering spark of hope. He squared his shoulders, a gesture that felt more natural, more authoritative, in his Shazam form. The thrill of flight had been a welcome distraction, but now, the true test was about to begin.